Hitting her back wasn’t an option. It would only make things worse in future. She was my mother and, above all, when she became incensed like that, it was as if she were possessed by some powerful force, she gritted her teeth, squinted her eyes into narrow slits, but worst of all she’d hiss terrible insults at me. She was like a beast. Terrifying. Strong.
Of course, I’d also thought of suicide or running away. But I didn’t. I loved school and my life outside the house, when I was allowed out. She wouldn’t let me go out with my friends. Once my schoolmate, Pauline, came round and knocked on our door. When my mother noticed it was for me, she said: “Don’t let her in. Get rid of her,” in Sicilian dialect. My mother always spoke Sicilian. She never learnt to speak English. Although it was raining, poor Pauline had to stand in the porch. We chatted there for a while. I didn’t apologise to her about not letting her in. I wouldn’t have known what to say. My mother came to the porch: “That’s enough. Send her away now.” I told Pauline, I had to go shopping with my mother, and that I’d see her the next day at school. Bless her, Pauline was very good about it. She didn’t hold it against me. I’d tried to hide my mother’s vicious nature.
Yes, I was quite good at concealing it. I didn’t want people to know what was happening to me. I wanted them to think we were normal. I was already the only Italian girl in our year and, apart from the abuse, I had a different life at home. I had to juggle two cultures. Keep them separated. At only twelve, I realised the two identities could not cohabit. My mother had never socialised with other mothers. The latter knew each other, talked about their children, and also knew each other’s children. Mine didn’t. Because of that I was more or less ignored by my friends’ mothers. For me, speaking about my parents was difficult. I tried to avoid it. In essence, I was ashamed of my mother; of the way she looked, dark and broody; of the way she spoke, always shouting; and the way she behaved, gesticulating uncontrollably.
In those days, kids played in the streets. I went out to play when my mother was still at work. When I used to see her coming down the road on her way back from work, I would feel a stab in my heart. I’d be afraid, and I’d be sad. Sometimes I played in other kids’ gardens. One afternoon a little group, Sandra, Theresa and me found ourselves in Karen’s garden. Karen lived across the road. Sandra and Theresa a few doors down. We got Karen’s rubber swimming-pool out and filled it up with water. We all sat in it and took turns putting our heads under water. Karen’s mother kept an eye on us from a window.
When she thought we’d had enough she said we were to come out of the pool. I remember this as if it had happened only yesterday. The elastic had gone around the middle of my bathing costume, so it sagged. My inferiority was apparent. Karen’s mother went to get towels and helped pat the three girls dry. I was left there dripping and took a towel when one of the others discarded theirs on the ground. Karen’s mother ignored me. She said there was orange squash in the kitchen. Not being sure if there were any for me, I left in my wet costume, walked across the street to our house, and unlocked the front door with the key hanging on some string round my neck.
They had been talking about Sandra’s birthday party. She’d sent out handmade invitation cards. I didn’t get one. I was the only kid in the street not to go. I sat behind the wrought-iron gate, and watched my friends having fun. Auntie Marge saw me sitting on the pavement looking on with my face between the railings. She was livid. Red-faced from anger, she came, took me by the hand and walked me to her house. She said she’d give Sandra’s mother a piece of her mind. I don’t remember if she ever did. But I do know that the women in the street called my mother: The Sicilian Woman. And they called me: The Sicilian Woman’s Daughter. I heard them.
TEN
Wednesday 23rd August – evening
As I am dishing up the lasagne for supper, Humps comes in the kitchen, hugs and kisses me. “Have you had a nice day, darling?”
I am so pleased to see him. “Let’s say it hasn’t been boring.”
“We wouldn’t want our Mary getting bored, would we?
“No, we wouldn’t. Come on, darling, it’s ready. Zia made lasagne this morning and gave me some to bring home. Isn’t that lovely of her?”
“Jolly nice of her. She’s doing takeaways now, is she?”
“I think lasagne are only for family,” I say.
“Probably cooks all the time to keep ennui at bay.”
“I don’t think so. She has lots of friends, they keep her occupied. She just delights in feeding all and sundry.”
“From what you tell me, she certainly has a lot of coming and going, to and from her house.”
“Yes, she does,” I say. “Buon appetito.”
“Buon appetito. Spaghetti bolognese for lunch and lasagne for dinner. I’m spoilt. This is carbohydrate heaven,” he says.
“Not going to be heaven for our waistlines. Tomorrow we’ll have salads for both lunch and dinner to compensate.”
“Then, there’s the barbecue on Sunday.”
“That’s right. I’m going to Zia’s again on Saturday to get the desserts. We’re having cassata Siciliana ice-cream.”
“Excellent choice. Anything you and Zia do is fine by me.”
“And what did you do today, darling?” I ask.
“Oh, I’ve been busy editing that talk I’m giving. It’s far too long. I need to shorten it by at least a quarter.”
“Well, you’ve ample time to work on it before the meeting.”
After dinner, I phone our children. I haven’t spoken to them for a while. Emma says that little Benjamin is getting over a mild virus which he caught from a friend’s baby. Her husband Mark is well and has been busy mopping up water. The people upstairs had gone off on holiday, hadn’t turned the washbasin tap off properly, and water seeped through the ceiling down to their flat. On the other front, my other daughter, Clara, is moving to be nearer her workplace to cut down on tedious commuting. It’s a bedsit the size of a handkerchief, in a chic area, that’s been done up stylishly, state of the art. She can’t afford more although she works long hours. She says she is buying a few pieces of second-hand furniture. The two girls have always got on well together. But they now seem to be drifting apart because Emma always talks about her family and Clara finds her a bore.
The evening seems quite mundane after Giusy’s story and after talk of educating Giulio in some way. Although, I am no longer a spring chicken, I glory in having a mother-figure in Zia. It is something I’ve envied Susi for.
ELEVEN
Friday 25th August
Thinking back to the day before, I decide to go and take a look around Alberto’s Amusement Arcade. After all, they don’t know who I am and anybody can go in. I need to get out at least once a day, and can pick up some shopping and a copy of the Evening Standard on my way back. Thought I’d just go and put my toe in the water and take it from there. Have a look round.
When entering the arcade, the place seems exciting and vulgar at the same time. It brings back memories of when we went to the fair as a child: the bright lights, the ding, ping sounds, the loud music. There are well-seasoned adults in Alberto’s arcade. I look at one man, who must be about my age, oohing and ahhing because he isn’t getting three pieces of fruit of the same suit on his one-armed bandit. An expensive hobby, I would think. He doesn’t look well off. Broken shoes and dirty trousers.
He notices I am looking, turns to me and says: “Come here, luv, bring us a bit of luck, will ya?”
I move closer to him and, what do you know, some coins come clanging down. “Ya, see, you’re me lucky star, ain’t ya? Do ya wanna put some coins in for me?” he says, holding out the money he has just won.
I dig around in the deepest recesses of my mind and make my thickest cockney accent surface: “Yeah, why not, let’s give’t a go. I gotta bit of dough here meself. Try mine first.”
I keep feeding the machine and win absolutely nothing. The machine has ‘Lucky Slot’ written on it. Yes, it is lucky for A
lberto, no doubt.
“No good at gamin’ me. Ain’t ever been lucky,” I say, “that’s enough, innit?”
“Nah,” he says, “gotta keep going now me luck’s turned.”
“Well, I ain’t putting any more in,” I say.
Then I see a machine with a grabbing metal claw hanging down, in a large glass cabinet, and a lot of teddy bears stacked up randomly underneath.
“Oh, I like the look of them. I’m gonna see if I can get me one for me grandson,” I say.
“How old is he?”
“One.”
“He’ll like one of them, then.”
“Won’t he just.”
After a few attempts, and a few ‘Oh, Gawds,’ I manage to grip a yellow and white teddy bear, and carefully hoist it out. In the meantime, a woman joins us.
“This is Belle,” the man says, “she’s me better half. Me name’s Jack, by the way.”
“Hi, Belle. Ya old man’s been showing me the ropes. I never been in here before.”
“Ain’t ya,” she says, looking at me as if to say ‘you haven’t lived.’ “What’s your name, then?”
“Mary.”
A well-dressed man, about forty, in an impeccable suit, black hair, handsome, goes past in an I’m-irresistible swagger. He makes a bee-line for an attractive blonde woman in a short black dress and black tights, about the same age as him.
Belle says: “That’s the owner. Eyetie he is.”
So that’s him. He walks up to the blonde whispers something in her ear, and she giggles out loud, smacking his wandering hand.
“She’s the manageress,” Jack says.
“Yeah, she manages his dick,” Belle says, “that’s why she’s the manageress, here and all.” Belle and Jack laugh, they think that is hilarious. I join in.
“I gotta go now. Me old man’ll be wondering where I got off to,” I say.
“Ya don’t want him to think ya been manageressing, do ya?” Belle says.
I leave while they are splitting themselves at the seams.
That is interesting, I think. He’s got another one on the go. How does he do it? Now I’ll go to Giusy Hairstylist. Curious to see what her shop is like. I can have my hair cut and styled there. Get an appointment. She’ll recognise me, no doubt. I put the teddy bear in a Waitrose ‘Bag for Life,’ so Giusy won’t know I’ve come from the arcade.
The place looks smart. It has been done up nicely, though it is a bit kitsch for my liking. A young girl with bright pink sun-strokes in her hair says: “Hiya.”
“Hi,” I say, giving my speech a slight cockney accent. I couldn’t speak too differently from the day I met Giusy at Zia’s.
“Can I have an appointment for tomorrow, please?”
“We ain’t got time tomorrow. It’s Saturday. We’re full.”
Giusy sees me, says “Sorry, luv, be back in a tick,” to her customer, and comes over.
“Hiya.” She recognises me.
“We can find time for the lady,” Giusy says to the girl, who must have been her trainee.
“No, we’re full,” the girl says.
“Erm, let’s have a look,” Giusy is getting irritated with the girl and grabs the appointment book from her. “Is it cut and style?” Giusy looks at my hair. “Can you come at six, or is it too late?”
“We close at six,” the drip says.
“That’s why I’m asking if she can come at six.” Giusy sighs.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” I say, “see you at six tomorrow.”
How’s that for killing two birds with one stone? I get my hair done for the barbecue, get to speak to Giusy and find out more about the Alberto-Giusy-Olga-manageress quartet.
TWELVE
Saturday 26th August
Silvio is at Zia’s on Saturday afternoon when I arrive to pick up the ice-creams. He is the oldest of Zia’s children. I’ve always been intrigued that all their Christian names begin with an S – Silvio, Stefano and Susanna. Age wise, I am between Stefano and Susi. The ice-creams are ready, Silvio has just brought them round. They are individually wrapped in the most beautiful pearly paper depicting Etna, the Sicilian volcano, in a frame of oranges and lemons. At the bottom are little yellow labels in case I want to personalise them by writing names on them. In the ice-box there is also a syringe filled with liquid. Zia sees I’ve noticed it and says: “You just give one or two squirt. Maybe three if you want big diarrhoea.”
“These are going to be a big hit. I am delighted with the result,” I say.
“Cuppa tea?”
Silvio’s mobile rings, he goes to the other room. As Zia is making tea and bringing out some bakewell tarts she has made, I tell her I’ve been to Alberto’s Amusement Arcade.
“Zia, Alberto was flirting with his manageress. They might be having an affair.”
“Ah, she lunchtime tart.”
“Are you saying you knew about her, Zia?”
“Yeah, I know. Olga tell me.”
So Alberto’s wife, Olga, knows about her.
“Olga say she no problem. Olga no love Alberto. Olga want money.”
Zia goes over to the sideboard drawer and pulls out a piece of paper. “Name manageress family on this paper. She have two children; three and six year old. I get from Olga.”
“But Giusy doesn’t know about the manageress, does she? She didn’t mention her the other day.”
“No, she no know. She no say she want potion for rid manageress.”
“I’m going to Giusy’s to get my hair done this evening. Should I say something, hint at it?”
“No, you say no thing, you hint no thing. She expect baby. She need stay calm.”
“Fine, Zia. I won’t say a thing.”
Silvio has finished his call and is back with us, drinking tea and eating bakewells. He talks about his ice-cream factory, how things are going well, and how his wife, Franca, is good at Sales and Marketing. One of his daughters, Nadia, works with them. She helps Franca and also does the accounts. The other, Anna, didn’t want to work for the family business and went off to work for some furniture company. But she would be going to work for the ice-cream factory in the near future, given that both Silvio and Franca were thinking of retiring. I tell them about my children and about my adorable grandson, showing them pictures on my phone.
Then Silvio says he has to get going and can give me a lift home, if I want. The ice-creams will melt by the time I get home otherwise, although Zia has packed them in a sturdy ice-box.
In the car, Silvio tells me more about his business and family. And, of course, we speak about Zia, too. Silvio has always had a kind character, unlike his brother Stefano. Stefano went to live up north when he married Romina, a young woman from Newcastle whose family had emigrated there from Sicily.
My mother got on well with Stefano and Silvio. She bent over backwards to be nice to them when they visited us, there were drinks and food galore. In contrast she had no time for Susi at all. The three siblings often came to our house, with Zia when they were small, and on their own when they were older. Silvio was the best-looking boy I knew. He was simply stunning. He had this James Dean aura about him, talked with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, threw his head back, while pouting his lips and puffing smoke out vertically, or in circles.
Girls flocked. He told me about them, who he was going out with, and how it was difficult to manage them. At a certain point he’d had three on the go at once. Got terribly muddled up. He couldn’t remember what he’d said to each, and what film he’d seen with which girl. He managed to buy an ice-cream van. After a couple of years, he’d bought himself a second-hand red Triumph Spitfire, in good shape, and sometimes took me for a spin around London. I imagined we were Liz Taylor and Richard Burton, especially when I wore a headscarf on sunny days and the car’s roof was rolled back. I adored him. He was six years older than me.
The last thing I wanted was for him to find a serious girlfriend and get married. That would have been the end of my special relationship wit
h him. Whenever he said something about leaving a certain girl, I would encourage him to do so elaborating on the negative points he’d told me about: “She suffocates me.” And I’d say something like: “You don’t want to be with someone who suffocates you, takes away your freedom and ruins your life.”
We used to laugh about Zia saying it was a stupid car because you could only get two people in it. “Where you put you shopping?” she’d say. And she kept that stick propped up against the front door. When girls rang the doorbell looking for him, she’d show them the stick and, if need be, she’d chase them off, waving it about shouting “You no touch my boy.” He was the young male presence in my life when I was a teenager – my ‘big brother.’ I had no boyfriends, wasn’t allowed out, he knew that. And I wasn’t going to meet any boys at my girls’ school.
I tried to tell him about the abuse my mother was inflicting on me. He said something about Sicilian mothers being hot-headed. In truth, he hadn’t realised how serious it was, I didn’t press the issue. It had already been hard for me to externalise it, stuttering it out to him. In essence, he was the ray of light in the darkness of my youth. But when Humps came into my life, he supplanted everyone who had gone before in my affections.
Humps isn’t at home when I arrive. I put the ice-creams in the freezer. Start doing some dusting and hoovering. I haven’t done much housework in the last few days.
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